“I don’t want to do that.”
His words are quiet, but they land like a brick.
I freeze, my fingers still hovering over the keyboard. “What?”
“I don’t want to do IVF.” He crosses his arms, his expression guarded. “Or any of that stuff.”
I stare at him, confused. “Why not?”
“Because it’s…” He hesitates, like he’s trying to find the right words. “It’s not natural, Meg.”
“Not natural?” I repeat slowly, my chest tightening.
“You know what I mean.”
“No, actually, I don’t.” I stare up at him. “What’s not natural about wanting a baby so badly that you’re willing to do whatever it takes?”
“Because that’s not how it’s supposed to work,” he says, his voice firm. “We’re supposed to trust God’s timing. Not force it with science and doctors and—”
“Science and doctors that God created,” I interrupt, my voice rising. “Why is it okay to pray for a miracle but not okay to look into help when it’s an option?”
He doesn’t answer, just stares down at his hands together.
“I can’t believe you,” I whisper, shutting the computer and standing. “You’re acting like IVF is some kind of sin.”
“I didn’t say that.” He shakes his head.
“You might as well have.” My voice cracks. “Mason, I thought we’d be on the same page.”
“We are,” he insists. “But I have a line, Meg, and that’s it.”
“A line?” I step closer, anger and hurt swirling together in my chest. “So what happens if we hit a year and nothing’s changed? What then?”
He exhales slowly, running a hand through his hair. “Then we keep praying. We keep trusting. And if it comes to it…I’d rather adopt.”
The words hit me like a slap.
“Adopt,” I repeat, my voice barely above a whisper.
“Yeah.”
“So you’d rather raise someone else’s baby than do everything we can to have our own?”
His expression hardens. “That’s rude, Megan.”
“Why?” Tears stream down my face now. “Because I’m selfish for wanting our own flesh and blood? That’s better than giving up!”
“I haven’t given up,” he says firmly, standing now. “I’m just telling you how I feel. That I don’t think IVF is the answer.”
“Then what is the answer?” I demand, my voice breaking. “Because I’m drowning here, and you’re telling me the one thing that might help is off the table?”
“We wait,” he says, his tone steady but strained. “We trust God. We—”
“Iamtrusting God!” I shout, my hands shaking. “But that doesn’t mean we can’t also get help!”
He doesn’t respond. He just stands there, arms crossed, jaw tight. And in this moment, I realize something that makes my chest ache. We’re not on the same page. We’re not even in the same book.
I grab my laptop, walk past him, and head to our room.
